


Nanny Comes Back

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Nanny Knows Best [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Adopted Children, Angels, Complicated Relationships, Demons, Family Feels, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Minor Violence, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-07-08 13:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19870249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: After the Apocalypse, Crowley reevaluates his priorities, and Nanny returns to Warlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning in this chapter for one line that's pretty transmisogynistic from one of the cooks. No slurs!

Warlock lay on his side under the bench, his head pressed against his rucksack, his jaw set. He could hear Mom calling for him out by the house, but he ignored it, and where he’d shoved himself under the stone bench out by Brother Francis’ cottage, he couldn’t be seen from the house.

Brother Francis left three weeks ago, a week after Nanny left.

He’d said he was sorry, that he had to go back down to London to be with family, and it had been… It wasn’t _fair_. Nanny left, and now Brother Francis, and that just left Mom and Dad, and Warlock didn’t _want_ them. Why couldn’t she have taken him with her? Why…?

Warlock’s gaze flitted to a little frog that was hopping slowly toward him, its big, glassy black eyes taking him in with a note of suspicion in them. It continued on, though, until it was in line with Warlock’s face under the bench, and he said, softly, “Hello, Brother Frog.” It was cream-coloured, and it reminded him of Brother Francis’ ugly coat, but he didn’t reach out to touch it, just letting it hop past him on its business, making its way toward the pond.

Warlock’s eyes were burning.

How could she _do_ that?

She was his _nanny_ , she was his **_nanny_** , how could she _do_ that?

He let out a little sob, not really meaning to, but he held his breath when he heard leaves crunching underfoot on the path, making sure his arms and legs were all underneath the bench. The boots came closer – big boots, black leather, black laces. One of the security men?

“Well, now, young Warlock,” said Mr Farraday, and Warlock sighed. “Your mother’s calling for you, so she is. Very worried.”

“No, she isn’t,” Warlock said, sniffling and going to drag his sleeve over his nose, but then dragging at his handkerchief instead, blowing it hard. “She just thinks she should start being my mom all of a sudden, and she _shouldn’t_. I don’t want her to.”

“Well, she started when she had you, lad.”

“Mom didn’t even know I don’t do karate anymore, or that I was Grade 1 on piano, _or_ that I like guitar better.”

“Well,” Mr Farraday said, but his voice faltered. “She can learn those things about you now, can’t she?”

There was a moment’s long silence.

“Nanny left because Daddy tried to have sex with her,” Warlock said.

Mr Farraday inhaled sharply. It made a sudden whistling sound, and Warlock knew it made his moustache bristles shiver when he did it, so he very slowly inched forward, crawling out from underneath the bench, and Mr Farraday put out one of his hands, helping Warlock up to his feet. He put Warlock’s bag on the bench’s seat, and then he leaned down, his big hands brushing over Warlock’s shoulders and his back, and Warlock let him, silent.

“Now, who told you that?” Mr Farraday asked.

“Nobody,” Warlock said. “The night before she went I saw Daddy at her door and being gross, and she slammed the door in his face, and it’s not _fair_ , Mr Farraday, because she’s my nanny and I want her and it’s not—”

“Listen, lad,” Mr Farraday said, and he dropped down into a crouch. Most adults would be left looking _up_ at Warlock if they did that, but Mr Farraday was built big and broad, and he had stubble on his face that grew in grey and slightly patchy, because hair didn’t grow where there were scars. The biggest one was down the side of his jaw, and Warlock had heard one of the cleaners saying he got it growing up in Glasgow, ‘cause he’d annoyed the wrong person. Warlock didn’t think there was such a thing as annoying the _right_ person, but he supposed most of them didn’t cut your face up if you annoyed them. “Ms Ashtoreth left ‘cause she had to take another job, alright? You’re a big lad now, and she thought you were old enough for her to go. And I know a lot of the fellas on the staff treated her bad, right, and maybe your Dad as well, but that wasn’t why she left. That wasn’t why.”

“I’m _not_ old enough,” Warlock said miserably, and his eyes were burning again, welling up with tears, and he saw Mr Farraday exhale, reaching for Warlock’s handkerchief held loosely in one hand – it was dark black fabric, a gift from Nanny, but Brother Francis had slightly messily embroidered Warlock’s initials on it with cream-coloured thread – and bringing it up to his face. “I want her _back_.”

“I know,” Mr Farraday said softly. “I know, lad. But you’re only a wain, so – when you’re older, you’ll understand more, alright? I know it’s hard, I know you want her back.”

“D’you know where she went?” Warlock asked.

Mr Farraday shook his head. “No. She was from up from near Falkirk, little village called Reddingmuirhead, but she was going back down to London, so she said. That’s all I know.” Mr Farraday dabbed at Warlock’s eyes, a little more clumsily than Nanny used to, and Warlock sniffled, glancing back to the house.

“She already gave up,” he muttered. “Told you she doesn’t care.”

Mr Farraday’s sigh was aborted, cut off as he probably realised he shouldn’t make it so obvious.

“Come on, lad,” Mr Farraday said gently, picking up his bag and patting Warlock’s shoulder. “Let’s get you in for your tea.”

\--

He got the address off his mom’s phone, because she never hid her unlock code, and anyway, 1111 was a stupid unlock code anyway. When _Warlock_ had a phone, he’d have a really hard password, so nobody could ever get in it, ever.

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_September 14 th 2014_

He stared down at the address, which he’d neatly tried to write out in his best handwriting, and then he swallowed. Except he could write her, couldn’t he? There was nothing in the house rules about writing people letters, and anyway, Nanny had set the rules and she was gone now, and _anyway_ , she said he should break the rules if he wanted to, so long as it wasn’t going to hurt him.

 _Dear Nanny_ , he wrote. _I am sorry that Daddy was mean to you and that the men here are bad too and I’m sorry I am too old but please come back anyway because I miss you and my mom keeps trying to be my mom but she isn’t. I just want you please._

 _Love, Warlock_.

He swallowed.

It wasn’t very good, he didn’t think, but he just…

He shoved the paper into an envelope, and went downstairs to steal a stamp out of the Mrs Goodley’s office downstairs, but he stopped in the corridor. Jimmy Thwaites was laughing with Eddie Handers and Big René.

“Run off together, probably,” Jimmy was saying. “Bet he’s fucked her six ways from Sunday by now.”

“She fucks him, more like,” Eddie replied, laughing. “Bet Nanny Ashtoreth has a cock like an elephant’s trunk, and old Francis always come across like he wanted it in the jacksy.”

Warlock set his jaw, sneaking into the housekeeper’s office and tugging open the drawer where she kept her stamps. She always had about three hundred thousand of them shoved into a drawer, because she liked to buy them every Friday, even though she only sent a few letters nowadays, and she gave them to Warlock sometimes when he and Brother Francis wrote letters complaining to people, which he said was a better thing to do than destroying someone with fire and brimstone. Shoved in the bottom of the drawer were firecrackers, because Mrs Goodley’s son was a teenage delinquent, and she said he’d been throwing them out the window at girl guides.

Warlock didn’t take the whole box, because Nanny always said you should never take the whole box, as it was too obvious you’d stolen something – instead, he emptied about half of the box (and it was nearly full, too, because those girl guides had screamed loud) into his pocket with the line of ten stamps he’d ripped off of one of the lower down sheets.

 _P.S._ , he wrote on the letter before he sent it, _I am going to make sure the cooks never say anything horrible about you again and if they don’t will you come back then? Please._

\--

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_November 1 st 2014_

_Dear Nanny,_

_Halloween was no fun without you and Francis here too. Mommy wanted to take me trickortreating, but then she made me pick a costume out of the catalog and be a super hero even though I wanted to wear my old Indianna Jones costume, and then when we went she made us go to some horible rich person neighbourhood where everyone gave me stupid healthy stuff and one lady even put five pounds in my basket which I thought was just stupid._

_Jimmy Thwaits isn’t working here at the moment because I put firecrackers in the kitchen and they popped into his face and melted his eyelid a bit so I hope you will come back_

_I miss you and I love you way more than any other kids could and I’ll make sure my dad doesn’t talk to you please_

_Love,_

_Warlock_

\--

_Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_December 20 th 2014_

_Dear Nanny,_

_Please come back. Just for Christmas and then I’ll never ask for you to come back again I swear_

_Love,_

_Warlock_

\--

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_March 14 th 2015_

_Dear Nanny,_

_I tried to go for a new archry teacher today but he was no good compared to you and he couldn’t even hit the gold every time, and I told him my old teacher could do that, and he got all embarased and stupid, and it was so stupid, and all I wanted was you._

_I promise if you come back I’ll practice my archry every day and the guitar and I’ll even try to learn the acordian like you. I just hate it here without you Nanny and I just want you to come home or even reply to my letters please please please just write back so I know I have the right adress_

_I love you_

_Warlock_

\--

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_August 17 th 2015_

_Nanny_

_It was my birthday today and you didn’t even send me a card and I don’t even want you to come back anymore. I hate you and I think you’re just horrible and all the men were right to be mean to you and when the apocalips comes I’m going to destroy you and everyone else and I’m glad the world is going to end because it’s stupid and your stupid too_

_ I hate you!! _

\--

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_August 19 th 2015_

_Dear Nanny,_

_I’m really sorry about the last thing I sent because I felt really bad once I sent it but when I went to the letterbox I couldn’t get it out again and I just wanted you to come back and I don’t hate you Nanny I love you and I just want you to come back._

_And if it was the apocalips I wouldn’t ever destroy you not ever, I’d only destroy all the stupid stuff and your not stupid._

_Please come back_

_Love_

_Warlock_

\--

 _Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_December 19 th 2015_

_Dear Nanny,_

_Please come home for Christmas. My Dad wants us to have a big turkey dinner and I hate turkey and I hate Christmas without you and brother Francis because when my dad dresses up as Santa Claus he just looks stupid and my Mom keeps trying to bribe me with all this stuff so that we don’t have to go anywhere or do anything and I hate it and I hate all my friends and I hate Mr Harrison and Mr Cortese and I hate my mom and I hate my dad and the only person in the world I don’t hate is you Nanny_

_And I know you said it would be bad to kidnap me but please do it anyway because I want to be kidnapped and I’d rather be kidnapped by anybody that just stay one more week here with all these stupid people_

_I wish the apocalypse could happen right now so that I could do whatever I wanted and then I’d make you come back and Brother Francis too and youd have to._

_Love_

_Warlock_

_\--_

_Lilith Ashtoreth_  
66 Angel Mews  
The Angel, London  
N1 9HJ

_April 4 th 2016_

_Dear Nanny,_

_Please come back. I miss you loads and just want to know if you are okay and what you are doing. Do you look after different children now? Do you teach them archery too? Doesn’t it make you sad that you’re not here? I’m sad._

_Love_

_Warlock_

\--

They just kept coming.

Every time Crowley thought that the boy had finally given up, he’d get a little notification on his phone that the sensor on the post box at the Angel Mews flat had had something through it, and he’d traipse up and get the little note. Always on Warlock’s birthday and around Christmas time, but through the years, too.

He thought he’d send _fewer_ , but he was sending more, now, even more than ever, he was writing to Nanny Ashtoreth nearly twice a month, and he was _ten_ , he was meant to be gearing up for the Apocalypse, and Crowley had seen him, once or twice, keeping an eye on him, and he was so…

He didn’t _look_ —

He did.

He did look unhappy.

Crowley could see it in his face, when he and Aziraphale caught glimpses of him from time to time, how bored he looked, how infuriated he seemed whenever his mother tried to touch his hand or his hair or his shoulder, how he’d stomp away and say that everything was stupid, _everything_.

He was a little _brat_ , and Crowley couldn’t help but feel he hadn’t _raised_ him to be that way, except that he just looked so _small_ , in the sad moments, so small and so alone.

And then came the birthday party, and the whole time, seeing Aziraphale go back and forth organising, he kept an eye on Warlock, acting the obedient waiter as he did so. Warlock, who didn’t really like big parties, who would rather a quiet time in than all these toys and all this noise and screaming, who wrote Crowley every week that he hated all his friends and couldn’t get any new ones, who looked so…

But he was the Antichrist.

He was the _Antichrist_ —

Until he wasn’t.

\--

It was three days after the Apocalypse was meant to have happened. After their respective trials, they’d gone out to dine at the Ritz, and it had been… It had been _different_ , to when they’d gone before. Crowley was certain of it, that there was a different tone to the space between them, their time together, he was certain—

And he ached to touch Aziraphale. He ached to broach the gap between them, to reach out and touch him, but even now, even with it all, Aziraphale seemed nervous and uncertain, seemed to panic and fluster if Crowley came in too close, and it _hurt_ , it _hurt_. The biting sting of _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ was still hot and burning in Crowley’s mind, and he exhaled as he moved across the room, looking at himself in the mirror as he did up the buttons neatly on the side of his skirt, one by one.

And that was after…

But Aziraphale wasn’t his priority, now. Not right now.

He thought about last night, and sighed.

_“You know,” Aziraphale murmured, drawing his thumb gently over the side of his champagne glass, watching the golden liquid bubble inside it, “I thought, er, well, given that… Well. We are his godfathers, after all. I thought we might like to, um, to visit young Adam, you know. Er— Spend… spend time with him. Like we were supposed to. He seems such a nice young chap, and his friends, and I imagine someone ought keep an eye on him, you know, and make sure that there isn’t anybody coming to bother him.”_

_“You want to make sure he isn’t misusing his powers, you mean?” Crowley asked, arching an eyebrow._

_Aziraphale frowned, his brow furrowing. “Now, no, I don’t think… I don’t think he’d do that. Seemed like a darling little fellow, I don’t think he’d do that, Crowley.”_

_“You didn’t think he was darling when you pointed that bazooka at him.”_

_“ **Crowley**. I was trying to avert the apocalypse, and besides, it was **your** suggestion, wasn’t it? To kill…?”_

_Crowley drained his glass. He didn’t want the champagne, light and bubbly, too sweet. He wanted something hard, something that hurt when he swallowed it, something that burned as it made its way down his throat and made his head sway when he gulped it down._

_“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, smoothing his fingers over the tablecloth. “It’s— That’s all over and done with, now. All those years, wasting them on the wrong child, but it all turned out well in the end.”_

_“I’m going back,” Crowley said._

_Aziraphale froze, his gaze on the tablecloth, and Crowley watched him, still holding the champagne flute up close to his mouth, willing it to fill up with some rotgutting whiskey without actually willing it. Aziraphale’s face turned a few shades paler._

_“To Hell?”_

_“To the Dowling House.”_

_Aziraphale turned to stare at him, his lips parting. “Why?”_

_“Shouldn’t’ve left,” Crowley said shortly._

_“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sounding horrified. Maybe he was. “The boy’s eleven now, he doesn’t want his childhood nanny coming and interfering in his business, and I know that it hurt you to go, but that’s so— That’s so selfish of you, Crowley, wanting to go in and upturn the poor boy’s life again. You’re not his **father** , you can’t do that!”_

_Each word stung._

_His retorts all stuck in his mouth, oozing bitterly over his tongue like so much thick poison: he does want me back, he writes me weekly, angel, he misses me, he loves me; and I love him, angel, I love him like my own son, which is more than his parents do; we already upturned his life, angel, don’t you realize that?_

_“I’m going,” Crowley repeated. “And it makes more sense than going to visit with that Adam lad. We don’t know him! He doesn’t know us!”_

_“We’re his godfathers, did we not agree?”_

_“Yeah, angel, **in abstentia**. We didn’t even know which kid was ours!”_

_His voice was raised, and one or two other diners turned to look at him, and Crowley sighed, pressing his lips together._

_“So what’s your plan then, hm?” Aziraphale asked, arching his eyebrows, but his lips were quivering in the way that pointed to an Aziraphale that might be crying, once he was in private, and that hurt worse than anything else. “Going to come back in, say, oh, you want a nanny for your **eleven-year-old**_ **?** _Goodness, Crowley, I hardly see why they won’t jump at the chance! Or, better yet, are you going to kidnap the boy? Just the thing for a recently disgraced denizen of Hell to do! Take up a stolen son!”_

_“Wouldn’t be the first.”_

_“Oh, Crowley, be **serious!”**_

_“I’m being serious. Raised that boy since he was an actual infant, Aziraphale, and we left him, and I don’t know why we did, because we left him alone in that house with those **people** , and you’re meant to be the good one! It’s meant to be you! So why don’t you **fucking** care?”_

_Aziraphale stared at him, his mouth wide open. There were tears in his eyes now. “I—”_

_“You never do, do you?” Crowley asked. “Watched all those children drown and thought, oh, yeah, that’s fine, told yourself that every war, every gun, every set of **freedom-fighters** was doing just fine when they bombed a damned scho—”_

_“Crowley!”_

_“Doesn’t it kill you?” Crowley demanded. “Doesn’t it rip you up inside? Don’t you ever want to be like them, really be like them, and not **know**? I wish I didn’t know, Aziraphale. I wish I could just be…”_

_“Crowley, you’re crying,” Aziraphale said softly, and he reached out with his handkerchief, touching the side of Crowley’s cheek with so much tenderness that Crowley felt like he would crumble with it, but then he drew his hand back. “I think you’re being… very unfair. I don’t—” He swallowed. “I think you feel guilty, and upset, and you’re— You’re choosing to go upend that boy’s life just to make yourself feel better. And I **know** that you’re a demon, Crowley, I know it’s hard to be selfless, but—”_

_Even through the sunglasses, it seemed Aziraphale felt the coldness in Crowley’s glare, because he faltered, recoiling slightly._

_“Crowley,” he whispered. “I **do** care. How dare you imply that I don’t? But we made that boy’s life odd and bizarre for seven years, interfering so awfully, and on top of sending our tutors for the other four, and don’t you feel guilty for it?”_

_“You loved him for seven years,” Crowley said. “You don’t feel guilty for stopping?”_

_“I never stopped. How **dare** you imply that I stopped?” Aziraphale hissed. “You horrible— I didn’t **stop** , Crowley. But he’s not ours. We can’t just… We can’t just take him.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because we’re not **parents!** We don’t know the slightest thing about caring for a child, not for our own, and the boy is eleven, he’s not a toddler anymore. How distraught will he be if you rip him away from his parents? I imagine he scarcely remembers us! And it hurts me, Crowley, it does hurt me, that his parents are like that, that his mother and father are so cold, but that doesn’t give us the right to—”_

_“I’m going,” Crowley said._

_“You can’t do that. You can’t just… just interfere because it pleases you, you can’t just—”_

_“Why not? I’m a demon.”_

_“You’ll be putting him in danger!”_

_“How?”_

_“Well, what if— what if Hell comes for you?”_

_“What if they don’t? What if Hell never comes for me, and I leave my boy for however much longer, with those people that don’t love him – and they’re not even his real parents, thanks to what **I** did, and he could have been with parents that loved him, Aziraphale, and he wasn’t because of what **I** did, and then I gave him love for seven years **and then I took it away!”**_

_Aziraphale jumped in his seat at the force of his shout, and Crowley felt hot embarrassment burn up his neck, his cheeks, at the way the glasses shuddered on the table, the chandelier tinkling threateningly overhead, and Crowley got to his feet._

_“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, catching his wrist, and Crowley nearly fell over in his hurry to wrench his hand back, and people really were looking now, people were staring, and he just wanted to go and drink himself into a stupor. “Crowley—!”_

Crowley looked at himself in the mirror, and he reached up, adjusting the ribbon at his neck, fixing his hair back. He was glad to have it long again. He liked having it long. He liked… He pushed his glasses further up his nose, and he took the bow case out from one of his closets, holding it neatly in one hand as he stepped out from the flat and made his way down the stairs.

He drove the Bentley to the Dowling House.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale held the phone’s receiver to his ear, listening to it ring, but after two more, Crowley’s ridiculous answer phone message came on – honestly, whoever heard of an ansaphone, but on someone’s _mobile_ telephone? He set the phone back on its hook, rolling over in his bed, and he pulled the thick, warm quilt over his shoulders, pressing his face against the pillows.

He didn’t usually get into bed.

He changed his clothes into pyjamas at the end of most days, but that was really just an excuse to get into a new outfit come morning, and he ordinarily sat on top of the sheets with his book in his lap, but tonight… Tonight, he wanted to be in bed.

Often, he thought of having Crowley beside him beneath the covers, wondering at how warm the demon’s body might be, how he might press himself against Crowley’s back or his chest, listen to his heartbeat… But no. No.

Crowley hadn’t answered his calls for the past two days.

He could look for him, of course, find him with a quick miracle, but… But he felt so awful about it all. About Crowley, about Warlock, and oh, oh, Warlock… He’d wanted to go back. Ever since they’d left, he’d ached to go back, to return to the Dowling House and take what felt, in so many ways, like it was their rightful place. He wasn’t good with children, Aziraphale wasn’t good with children, but even with that, he had felt so happy with Warlock, and Warlock had liked him too, Warlock had _loved_ him.

How could they ever have thought that little boy could be the Antichrist, when he loved Ashtoreth and Francis so utterly, so completely? And yet even as he thinks of _love_ in that household, the guilt cuts him to his very core, because Mr Dowling didn’t love his son, did he? Oh, he loved his wife, in that possessive way some men do, but Warlock ever seemed an afterthought to him, and Mrs Dowling’s confused, uncomfortable emotions where he son was concerned had always given Aziraphale a headache. She loved him, but with such reservations – she loved him, but not the time he took up, she wanted him, but not when she had other things to do, she was maternal, but awkwardly so, uncomfortably. Such guilt, such uncertainty, such fear, such pain, such _pressure_ … And yes, love, but lost in the midst of all those confused emotions.

Aziraphale lay on his side, heart aching beneath his breast, and he thought of the Dowling House.

He’d gone back.

He oughtn’t have, of course, but he had done, had slipped in once, twice, no more than three times, er, four—

Maybe a dozen times.

Just to check. And perhaps some of those unpleasant men who had always harassed Crowley so awfully had seen some just desserts, had left their work, or gotten caught in shocking accidents, or just… disappeared. Perhaps he’d doted on Mr Farraday, somewhat, when he was so sweet with Warlock.

And each time, he’d clapped eyes on Warlock, cursing at his mother, pacing in the corridors, playing on his computer or his phone, and seeming so unhappy, their boy, their Warlock, so unhappy… But not theirs, of course. They couldn’t—

Oh, but what if Hell _did_ come for him?

What if they realised how much Aziraphale cared, how much Crowley cared? What if they realised, and thought to set upon the little boy, to kidnap him, or hurt him? What if _Heaven_ found out, and took him away?

Oh, Aziraphale couldn’t bear it.

It was different, with Adam. Adam really _was_ the Antichrist – he could protect himself, could magic himself his protections, but Warlock? If Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t beside him, what could he do?

And anyway, _anyway_ , he was human, and Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t. How would it feel, to watch their boy grow old, and frail, and infirm… and die? How could he bear it? Aziraphale didn’t even let himself get too attached to _cats_. It hurt so much whenever casual friends and acquaintances died, but a _son_?

And yet—

Was it so wrong of him, to think about it? To think about Warlock having his own little bedroom, here in the shop, or in Crowley’s flat, having for himself a place with them? He wouldn’t want it, of course. How could he possibly want a fusty old bookshop, or cold marble walls, when he could have his big house, and all his toys and technology, all that land? Why would he want Aziraphale and Crowley at all?

A pudgy, dilapidated angel with rusted wings and a penchant for first editions, and a demon with no sense of road safety and a sometimes concerning lack of consideration for himself? How could they be what Warlock wanted? They were so different to Francis and Ashtoreth, and anyway, they couldn’t— _kidnap_ him, they couldn’t…

He thought about it, sometimes. What might have happened if Crowley had run off with the boy in the first instance, brought home a babe in arms that they might raise him themselves. He thought about it at such length sometimes that he felt he might burst into tears, at the missed opportunities – and now, now that they knew he wasn’t the Antichrist! They would have had him! He would have been _theirs_ , theirs, their boy…

His cheeks felt hot. There were tears burning at the corners of his eyes. When the telephone rang, it shocked him, and he shuddered, shifting to the edge of the bed and pulling up the receiver.

“You beastly thing, Crowley,” he said, sniffling and trying his best not to. “Why ever didn’t you call sooner?”

“I’m not Crowley,” said the voice on the other end of the line, the pout in it plain. Aziraphale slumped.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, Adam, dear boy, I am sorry. I thought you were Crowley. Oughtn’t you be in bed?”

“It’s only seven o’clock, Mr Fell.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale asked vaguely, sparing a glance at the clock, but not really seeing its face.

“Are you and Mr Crowley still coming on Friday? Dad said I had to double check so Mum gets enough for everybody’s tea.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Er— Well, I…” He bit his lip. Would Crowley come? How could he not? How could he _not_? “Yes,” he said, voice wavering only slightly. “Yes. On Friday.”

“Okay,” Adam said. There was a moment’s pause, and then he said, “Are you alright, Mr Fell? You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, you know, it’s only fish and chips.”

“Oh, I want to,” Aziraphale said quietly into the receiver. “Merely that I feel a little under the weather, dear, I’m just tucked up in bed.”

“Oh,” Adam said. “Okay. Will you be better soon?”

“I hope so.”

“If you’re not,” Adam decided, “I’ll come down and make you better.” Aziraphale felt a rush of abrupt fear. “I’ll bring my mum’s chicken soup, and I’ll make you tea, and a hot water bottle, and all that stuff.” The fear was replaced by guilt, and shame. Aziraphale ached for Warlock, and then felt even guiltier for comparing poor Adam to Warlock. Oh… Oh, guilt. Oh, guilt, guilt, guilt.

“You’re darling, Adam,” Aziraphale whispered. “Good night.”

“G’night! Feel better soon!”

He put down the phone and rolled over.

Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms tightly about his pillow, and hoped Crowley would call him back.

\--

“Nanny,” Warlock said, pulling back from the vice-like grip Nanny had had around him, looking up at her face. Coming out from underneath her sunglasses, he could see the shine on her cheeks, and he remembered when he’d found her before, the tears on her cheeks. “Nanny, you’re crying!”

“I’m just happy,” Nanny said breathlessly, her voice hoarse as she cupped his cheeks, touching his hair where it hung down on either side of his head, the long curls against his ears. Dad hated it, said his hair was too long, but he couldn’t _make_ Warlock get a haircut, and he liked it like this, liked how it looked, and how it felt. “I’m so happy, dear, I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

She exhaled, and then she reached up.

“Nanny, your eyes, it’s still sunny!”

“It’s alright,” she said, drawing the sunglasses away and folding them into her front pocket, and for the first time, Warlock got a real, proper look at Nanny’s eyes. They were bright yellow, and the pupils were black but made into straight lines, like a snake’s.

“Coloboma,” Warlock said.

“No,” Nanny murmured, with a little shake of her head. “No, love. You and I— We need to have a talk.”

“A talk?” Warlock repeated.

“Why don’t we go inside, hm?” Nanny asked, cupping his head, and he reached up, touching her wrist. She ran a little cooler than he remembered – she was warm, but not as warm as he thought she was, in his head, not as warm as he was. He stared up at her face, taking it in, her cheekbones, her nose, her chin – she looked different, without the sunglasses, like there was more expression in her face somehow.

He realised he’d almost forgotten what her voice sounded like, and he threw himself forward, burying himself against her chest again, squeezing her tightly around her middle. Nanny exhaled, pressing kisses against the top of his head, holding him back.

“Are you coming back?” Warlock asked, walking alongside her as they started moving toward the house. “Will you? Please?”

“No,” Nanny said. “Or— It’s complicated.”

“Adults say that,” Warlock said, “when they don’t want to explain something.”

“I’m going to explain,” Nanny said, looking at him seriously. “I’m going to, my darling, I will. But we just want to sit down first.”

“Okay,” Warlock murmured, and he bit his lip, thinking of the weird man in Megiddo, thinking… Thinking. “Did you— Did you get my letters?”

“I did,” Nanny said, her voice cracking slightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply.”

“Brother Francis didn’t reply either,” Warlock mumbled, looking down at his feet. “I sent him some. Mr Farraday said you were probably busy with your families, or your work, or maybe that they weren’t getting through.”

“How have you been?” Nanny asked, looking at him seriously, her gaze focused on his face, concentrated, her lips pressed together. Her voice was weighty, like she was worried how he might reply, and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine,” Nanny repeated. “How did you— Your birthday, how did you like that?”

Warlock looked down at his feet, watching the path go by beneath them as they moved up toward the house. His birthday… It had been _stupid_. It hadn’t been anything he’d asked for, and he didn’t want all those _people_ there, all the children of his parents friends, and there’d been this stupid magician who couldn’t even do magic, and when the whole thing with the guns had happened, _that_ had been cool, but—

The gunshot had been a big surprise. It hadn’t hurt anybody, but it had gone right through him, and after his dad had laughed about it, and was all like “these things happen, son!” but it had been…

“It was fine,” Warlock said.

“Your father?”

“Fine.”

“Your mother?”

“She’s fine.”

“When you punish someone by demanding a sum of money off them for doing something illegal?”

Warlock’s mouth twisted into a grin, but he didn’t look up at Nanny’s face. “Fine,” he said.

“That’s my boy,” Nanny murmured, and let Warlock step ahead of her into the house.

“Well, there he is now, so he is,” said Mr Farraday, patting a cook’s shoulder. “Warlock, my fine young lad, do you like cheesecake?”

“No,” Warlock said.

“What sort of cake do you like, Warlock?” asked the cook. She was one of the new ones, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, and she had a foreign accent – she was Lithuanian, Warlock thought, or maybe Latvian, it was one of the ones that began with L.

“I don’t like cake,” Warlock said. “I think it’s—” Nanny was looking at him. She wasn’t saying anything, or even frowning: she was just looking at him, her lips pressed together, her gaze focused. He faltered. “Um,” he said. “I don’t… I like eclairs. Uh, that kind of pastry.”

“Choux pastry,” said the cook, with a small smile, and she nodded her head. “I can do that. You like profiteroles?”

“I don’t know.”

“I make you profiteroles,” the cook decided, with a nod of her head. “Tonight!”

“Thank you,” Warlock said weakly, watching her bustle away down the corridor.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Mr Farraday repeated, his eyebrows raising. “Why, what…?” He trailed off. He’d caught sight of Nanny as she stepped inside, and his mouth fell open as he looked at her, but then he took two smooth steps forward and enfolded her in a hug.

“Oh!” Nanny said, but she let Mr Farraday hug her, and then she hugged him back, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Nanny was a big woman – not fat, because she was skinny and kind of square, but she was tall and bigger than a lot of ladies were. When Mr Farraday held her, though? She looked so small… “Oh, Mr Farraday—”

“Ms Ashtoreth!” Mr Farraday said, leaning back and touching her shoulder, squeezing it. “Are you back to visit the wee bairn?”

“He’s not so wee anymore, I fear,” Nanny murmured, and she took hold of Mr Farraday’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll talk to you, later this evening, if you don’t mind. For now, I have some things to discuss with the wain.”

“Alright,” Mr Farraday said. “Er— D’you want me to take your bow?”

“Oh,” Nanny said, and she drew it from her shoulder. “Yes, if you’d just…?”

“I’ll put it aside.”

Mr Farraday was smiling, his grizzled features showing pure and genuine warmth, and when he turned his gaze on Warlock, still beaming, Warlock swallowed, biting his lip. He smiled back, weakly, and followed Nanny into the house, moving ahead of her so that he could lead the way up to the playroom upstairs. He thought it was stupid to call it a playroom – it was just a TV and a sofa, and he did have toys, but he had more books, and it was really just his own living room, so he could watch TV and use his computer without having to see his mom or dad.

Nanny sank slowly to sit down on the couch, and Warlock said, “Um, do you want something to drink, Nanny? I have Coke and bottles of water, but I could text the kitchen if you want something else, like tea.”

“No, no, I’m alright,” Nanny murmured. She patted the sofa beside her. “Why don’t you sit down? This is… I want to explain everything to you, alright? I want to explain. And then if you want me to go… I can go.”

“I won’t ever want you to go,” Warlock said, dropping to sit next to her, pulling his legs up underneath himself. “Not _ever_ , Nanny, don’t—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Nanny said, touching his hands. “No, just… Listen to me. Alright, dear? I didn’t… You see my eyes? You see them? Not coloboma. These are my eyes. I’ve always… I’ve always had eyes like this. You…” Nanny sighed, putting her head in her hands, and Warlock felt the pit of anxiety shift in his stomach, roiling in its place like a ball of rope in his gut. He felt sick, worried as he watched Nanny uncertainly. “Do you remember the songs I used to sing you, hm? Our special little songs, that were just for you and I?”

“Yes,” Warlock murmured. He put his hands on his knee, watching them against it, shifting slightly in his seat. “I Googled the lyrics, once, to the Grand Old Duke of York, and they were different. And your lullaby, too, and some of the nursery rhymes you taught me, and when I looked back in my books, I didn’t have the books I used to have. But Mr Harrison said that— He had a lot of that stuff, you know. He said it was just hard to find online, because it was dark humour. Like… goths.”

“Goths,” Nanny repeated, her mouth shifting into a frown. “Well, I… And you remember what I taught you? About— You remember me talking about the Apocalypse, ever?”

“You said I’d bring it about,” Warlock said slowly. “Mr Harrison said it was a metaphor. For, um. Self-growth, or something.”

“Did he indeed?” Nanny asked. “I must have a word with Mr Harrison.”

“He left. Mr Farraday said he and Mr Cortese eloped.”

Nanny’s eyebrows raised, her yellow eyes widening, and her lips shifted into a slight smile, her lips parting. “Why did he think that?”

“Because Mr Cortese told him they were,” Warlock said quietly. He’d been so… Mr Cortese was such a weird man, fussy and kind of proper, who would get upset and scandalised if Mr Harrison made a mean joke, but when it came to Mr Harrison, he was super cutting, and Mr Harrison was… Well, Mr Harrison was kind of a disaster, and fell over all the time, and for being a guy who was so into talking about death and destruction, he’d actually fainted once when Warlock had skinned his knee. They were… _nice._ They were nice. He was happy for them, and they said they’d come back after the summer, if Warlock was still here.

It was a weird thing to have said, Warlock thought. Where else would he go?

Nanny stared at him, her fingers brushing against her lips, and then she exhaled, turning her gaze away for a moment. “I will have some water, dear, if you don’t mind.” Warlock moved to grab her a bottle from the minifridge, and he pressed it into her hand, but she didn’t open it, just holding it loosely in her palm, letting it rest on her knee.

“Nanny,” Warlock said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nanny whispered.

Warlock exhaled, quietly.

“Warlock,” Nanny said, “when you were born… You were born in a nunnery, did your mother ever tell you that? You were born in a nunnery in a village called Tadfield.” Warlock shook his head, and Nanny patted the sofa again, getting him to sit down next to her, watching her carefully. “And there were two other babies that night. One of them was— There were two sets of parents, right? Your mother, giving birth, and another mother, her name is Deidre. She gave birth to her baby. And then there was… A third baby.”

“A third baby,” Warlock repeated. “Who was his mom?”

“Good question,” Nanny murmured. “Not one I know or want to know the answer to, I admit. You see, that baby was— That baby was the son of who we call Lucifer. Satan. The Antichrist.”

“Nanny,” Warlock said. “I’m too old for fairy stories. They’re _stupid_ , I’m too old for them—”

“Me too,” Nanny said quietly. “But I’m afraid— No. You _are_ too old for fairy stories, dear, I know, and once I… Once I tell you this one, once I tell you the whole thing, you can choose to put it aside if you want, alright? But just— May I tell you?” Nanny wasn’t crying, but her eyes were watering again, and Warlock reached out to touch her hand, holding it gently under his own. She heaved in a gasp, her lungs inflating, and she stared into space for a long moment.

“Okay,” Warlock said. “Okay. You can tell me.”

“In the Beginning,” Nanny said. “There was a garden. You remember the story I told you, the one in Genesis? The garden of Eden, which God made, and in it were Adam and Eve. A serpent went up to her, and tempted her to eat from the forbidden tree, from the Tree of Knowledge. And she ate from it, and she knew truly free will. And God cast her and Adam out of the garden.”

“Yeah,” Warlock said. “God hated that she asked questions, wanted answers, and punished her for it. God punished her for not just blindly obeying.”

Nanny hesitated. Nodded.

“And the serpent that tempted her,” Nanny said slowly, “he was once an angel. He Fell, you know, from Heaven. Because he asked questions – he was curious about the world, and he wanted to know more about it, about humans. And so he was punished, and he Fell from Heaven, and he became a demon. He didn’t know, when he tempted Eve with the apple, that the same thing would happen to her.”

“Seems like it’s mean of God,” Warlock said. “To— To do that. You can’t punish somebody for disobeying rules when you didn’t know they were rules, or for… for wanting to learn. That sucks.”

Nanny’s nostrils flared as she took in another breath.

“And that demon, the serpent,” Nanny said, “he was there. He brought the third baby from Hell, the Antichrist. He brought him to the nunnery. He was meant to put that baby in place of the child of the Dowlings, so that he would be raised in the lap of luxury – that he would be between the UK and the US, you see? So that when it came to the Apocalypse, he would be able to do the most damage possible.”

Warlock watched her face, watched the quivering shift of Nanny’s lip, as he asked, “Me? That baby was me?”

“No,” Nanny said.

“No?”

“N— There wasn’t meant to be three,” Nanny said, slightly hurriedly. “It was meant to be just Mr and Mrs Dowling in the nunnery – it was meant to be a simple swap, the Antichrist for their baby, who would be given up for adoption. And what— What happened instead was that the Antichrist was given to the Youngs, the other family. The youngs’ baby, he was given to the Dowlings. And the biological child of the Dowlings, he was… he was given up for adoption. He was adopted by a family called the Johnsons.”

Warlock felt like he’d been dipped in cold water, all of his hairs standing on end along the back of his neck, along his arms. He stared at Nanny, looking for a sign that she was joking, that it was some kind of kid, but Nanny didn’t kid like that, she didn’t joke like that, not even after all those years away, she wouldn’t…

“So,” Nanny said, “that demon, the serpent, he… He didn’t want the Apocalypse to happen. He and his… his friend, an angel, they wanted to avert it. They thought if they could help raise the Antichrist, that it might— that they might be able to teach him to be a mix of both good and bad. They would give him the tools to be able to choose, and they hoped he would choose _not_ to destroy the world. They didn’t— They wanted the boy to be human. T|o have good and bad, to be _loved_ , to be… cared for.”

“So… So the angel and the demon,” Warlock said, “if they cared for— for me… They only did that because I was the wrong baby? Because they messed it up?”

“That’s why they came,” Crowley said. “But they loved him too much. They couldn’t… stay, when he was— When he was too old, because they didn’t think they could be unbiased anymore, that they could encourage him to be… It wasn’t the job that they meant it to be. It wasn’t a job anymore, it wasn’t strategy.”

“You and Brother Francis?” Warlock asked.

Nanny’s throat shifted, and she swallowed. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Show me?”

“You don’t need to be frightened,” Nanny said, slowly getting to her feet.

“I’m not frightened,” Warlock said. “Not of you.”

“Not even now?” Nanny asked, disbelieving.

Warlock didn’t say anything. He just watched, his mouth open, at the black wings that slowly folded out from Nanny’s shoulders, coming out from her jacket at the back. They were big, over her head, and as she rolled her shoulders, the wings spread out a little bit, the feathers black and glossy, with red ones underneath, and Warlock reached out, but then hesitated, his fingers closing.

“Will it hurt you?” he asked. “If I touch?”

“No,” Nanny whispered, and he reached out, brushing his fingers against the dark feathers. They were softer than he expected, glossy and slightly waxy to the touch, and he rubbed the stuff between his fingers. “Most birds have… It keeps the feathers clean and healthy. Oil, like the grease that gathers up in your hair.”

“Oh,” Warlock said.

“So— So the Apocalypse didn’t happen,” Nanny said. “The other boy, Adam, the real Antichrist, he didn’t… He didn’t want to end the world. And— And Heaven and Hell, they tried to, tried to execute the angel and the demon—”

“Execute?” Warlock repeated. “They tried to kill you? Nanny!”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Nanny said, touching his shoulders with her hands, the water bottle thrown aside. “It’s… We’re alright. Francis and I, we’re alright. But it was… But there are risks, Warlock. From Heaven, from Hell, and the… And I had to be careful, I couldn’t put you at risk, not by— If we made it too personal, they might have done something, they might have… But I’m here now. And I wanted to be honest with you, I wanted to explain.”

“Does this mean you’re gonna go away again?” Warlock asked.

“You asked me to come back,” Nanny whispered. “I felt so… I felt so bad for leaving, but I couldn’t come back, not without… Not until—”

“But you’re back now,” Warlock said. “You came back for me.”

“But I’m a _demon_ , Warlock, do you understand?” Nanny asked, her voice choked, her eyes watering. “Do you— Do you understand what I’m telling you? I’m not your nice nanny who… I’m a demon. It isn’t just the eyes, I’m a _serpent_ , a snake, I’m just crammed into this body because people give big snakes funny looks. I’m a _monster_. I ruined everything, I—”

“Nanny,” Warlock said quietly. “I don’t want you to go away again. I don’t care… I don’t care. I don’t care.”

“I ruined your life,” Nanny whispered.

Warlock’s eyes felt hot, his throat thick. He felt like he was about to burst into tears, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t _stop_ , and he grabbed hold of Nanny’s arms, holding onto them. “Nanny, I don’t want you to go away again.” His mind was reeling, trying to understand it, trying to— But she wouldn’t make it up, would she? And the wings, they were _real_. He could see it, see her eyes, her wings, and it made everything… But he didn’t _care_. He didn’t _care_. “Don’t go away again.”

“I won’t,” Nanny promised. Warlock was crying, and she let out a choked noise, pulling him close to her, cradling the back of his head, and he felt her wings shift around him, cocooning them in warm darkness, and he couldn’t help the way he sobbed against her chest. “I won’t. I won’t go away, I won’t, I— I’m here. I’m here, Warlock, I won’t ever leave you again, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”

And Warlock cried, and cried, and she held him so tightly he felt like he’d die if she stopped.


	3. Chapter 3

“… and so we met back up in St James’ Park, and swapped our bodies back,” Crowley said quietly. It felt strange, telling another person all this, but telling it to Warlock, it was… It was freeing, in a way, and yet he was so aware that he didn’t want to burden the child too much, didn’t want to _curse_ him with all the knowledge, but he was listening actively, would interrupt to ask questions, was riveted.

“And how long ago was that?” Warlock asked.

“Five days ago, now,” Crowley murmured. “I had to… I had to weigh up the pros and cons, of coming back here. I didn’t want to put you at risk, but I also didn’t want to…” Crowley trailed off. Swallowed. Said, “I already abandoned you. I wanted to make it right.”

“You really felt like you had to,” Warlock said, not looking at Crowley. He was looking at his hands. “Leave me.”

“If we’d stayed, it could have been… We couldn’t draw too much attention to you, and I was too attached, I didn’t think I could let it all happen like it was supposed to, and that’d put you at risk too, you see, if I was too involved, because then you’d be under scrutiny from my side, and from Aziraphale’s.” Some of the ache in his chest had dispersed, but a lot of it was still there, coiled up in his chest, and Crowley wondered if it would ever go away – not just guilt, not just that, but _love_ for the boy, so much love he thought it would kill him. Maybe it would. “But I didn’t want to. I don’t want you to think I didn’t love you, because I do.”

“My mom doesn’t,” Warlock said.

Crowley inhaled, very, very slowly.

He hated having to be fair.

It was Aziraphale’s job to do that sort of stuff, and it didn’t seem to him that he should have to do it, but if he was going to be a parent, he had to be, at least a bit, didn’t he? Had to be fair.

He wished someone would be fair to him.

“She does,” he said. “She does love you, it isn’t… It’s not so easy as—”

“D’you think she knew?” Warlock asked. “That I’m not her real son?”

“No, no, Warlock, you _are_ her real son, she raised you, she—”

“No, she didn’t! You did!” Warlock all but shouted, and Crowley wracked his brains for a good response, but he couldn’t really think of one. This had never exactly been covered in any of his parenting books – funnily enough, this situation wasn’t exactly the standard, and even the most bizarre of the parenting books he had didn’t have sections on adoption mix-ups, or even complex custody agreements.

“She loves you,” Crowley repeated. “But it’s… You know, I don’t know it was easy for her, being a mother, I don’t know—”

“S’not easy being a son, either,” Warlock said, and Crowley reached out, gently touching Warlock’s cheek. It was slightly wet with tears, but he didn’t pull away, hand curling around Crowley’s wrist, and he took a step closer, leaning against his chest where Crowley was still sat down. Crowley put his chin against the top of the boy’s hair – getting long now, he noticed, much longer than it had been, and he missed having his own hair long – and gently rubbed his back.

“I know it’s not,” Crowley whispered. “My… Mother, She didn’t— but that’s not really relevant, it’s not helpful, I just mean that I know what it’s like, love, to be abandoned. That’s why I had to come back. That’s why I had to show you that I _do_ care, that I didn’t want to…”

“What happens now?” Warlock asked, when Crowley trailed off. His voice was muffled against Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley was quiet, taking a strand of the boy’s hair and playing with it, curling it about one of his fingers. It made Warlock shiver, and although his voice was a little hoarse, Crowley heard the ticklish giggle, and smiled.

“S’up to you,” Crowley said.

Warlock leaned back, looking at Crowley. “Really?” he asked sceptically. He was looking at Crowley very hard, his dark gaze intent, and Crowley felt put on the spot, felt… _small_. Was this meant to be part of parenthood, feeling so small, so powerless? Was he a parent now? Was he signed up, getting the newsletter, and everything else?

“Yes,” Crowley said. “It’s up to you. I thought about it, and I spent… I spent a long time not explaining things to you, and making decisions that weren’t— That I don’t know if they were the right ones, and so did Aziraphale, but you’re older now, and I… Look. You’re still a kid, right? You’re only eleven. But you’re old enough to pick some things, you’re old enough to know what you want, and I think I can… I want to give you limits that are good, but the big decisions, you know, those are still yours.”

“Big decisions,” Warlock repeated, his voice slow and analytical, his eyes shifting over Crowley’s face, taking it in. “What like?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “What comes to mind?”

“Like,” Warlock said, “if I wanted to come and live with you. That’s a big decision, isn’t it? And you’re going to say that I can’t do that.” His face was so hard, and Crowley wondered how much pain must be underneath it, pain that he wasn’t seeing – how could it be right, that a little boy, his little boy, could hide the hurt so well? The ache in his chest grew keener, brought to the whetstone and sharpened to a point.

“Why would I say you can’t do that?” Crowley asked. His voice was very quiet, and almost quavering, but he made sure to keep it steady.

“Because Mom’s my real mom, even though she’s not. And Dad. And you’re gonna say that you can come visit, but that I can’t come live with you, because they’re still my real parents.” Crowley could hear the weight of resignation in Warlock’s voice, the way it weighted down every word, and he wanted to leave, didn’t he? All these rooms, all these toys, all this everything… and he wanted to leave. He wanted Crowley.

Crowley swallowed.

He wasn’t certain, exactly. He had enough space in the flat, but he’d rip it all out and re-do it, or move somewhere else, find the boy somewhere with good school zoning, if he wanted to live in the city, and if he didn’t want to live in the city… And he could make it comfortable, and he could give him time, spend time with him, he could— And he didn’t know if Aziraphale would be on board, but if he wasn’t, if he wasn’t, then Crowley would just do it all himself, and if he _was_ …

Would he be a good parent? Really, truly?

He wasn’t sure. He’d been a good nanny, he thought, but that wasn’t real, it was already a role, and he wasn’t meant to be raising the boy to be a _child_ , just raising him to be the Antichrist, and he wasn’t, and—

Crowley’s brain was a fuzzy mess of thoughts and contradictions of those thoughts, a lot of half-finished arguments chattering away all through his skull, clattering off the walls of his own head and echoing awfully.

“I thought about saying that,” he admitted.

“I _knew_ it,” Warlock muttered. “So what _big decisions_ am I meant to make? What wardrobe I can have?”

“No,” Crowley said. “No, I mean, I thought about saying that. But... You know, if you really want to come and live with me, I’ll talk it through with your Mum and Dad.”

Warlock stared at him. His mouth had fallen open, hanging ajar, and when Crowley delicately tapped his own chin, he brought it closed with a little click of his teeth. Crowley had never seen such undisguised awe on the face of another human being, even another child, had never seen such complete and disbelieving wonder.

“Really?” Warlock asked in a whisper, like he was frightened to say the word any louder.

“If you want,” Crowley said. “And if you want it, and then you come, and you hate it, you can come back. I need to talk to them, but—”

“And you’ll make them agree?” Warlock asked. “Like… with, with magic?”

“No,” Crowley said. “I’ll talk with them. Can’t… I can’t _tempt_ them into it, not like that. They’d regret it, and it’d hurt them, and it’d hurt you too. They do _love_ you, you know. It’s not… I know it’s hard, and complicated, but I don’t think they want to hurt you.” Crowley spoke softly, and he hated how the words sounded coming from his mouth, how weak and reedy. He thought about God, and it stung. “They’re just doing their— Well, your mom, she’s doing her best. She just doesn’t know what to do, isn’t good at it. But she loves you, Warlock, I can _feel_ that she loves you.”

“What about my dad?” Warlock asked, quick as a whip, and Crowley hesitated. “Does he love me too?”

“He loves you,” Crowley said. “Maybe… Maybe not as selflessly as your mother does.”

“Maybe,” Warlock repeated.

“You’re very sardonic for a little boy.”

“You taught me,” Warlock said, tone wry, and Crowley felt his lips shift into a weak smile. “They want to send me to boarding school when I’m thirteen. I don’t want to go to boarding school.”

“What sort of school do you want to go to?”

“I like Mr Harrison and Mr Cortese,” Warlock said, glancing away. “But I’d like to go to a proper school, you know, with real kids. Not… I said I wanted to go to school, and Mom brought out this thing for a private school, like, a leaflet, and it was all these stupid kids with dumb names and a lot of them were princes and stuff, and you had to live there, and I didn’t want to. I don’t want to be in a boarding school, not ever.”

“Alright,” Crowley said. “You mean like a normal comprehensive, yeah? Other kids, from 9 ‘til 4, stuff like that? It’d be hard work, you know, different from having tutors. All those people.”

“Yeah,” Warlock said. “Yeah, I want to.”

“Okay,” Crowley said.

“And I want to join the Scouts. Mom said I couldn’t because none of her friends’ kids are in the Scouts or the Guides, and that it’s for poor kids.”

“For poor—” Crowley repeated, feeling rage and bafflement and horror and disgust all at once, and then he stopped himself. “That’s not really— You mother is— You want to join the Scouts,” he elected to say, not quite letting himself grit his teeth. “Okay.”

“And I want to ride a bike. And I want archery lessons, and I want—”

“Okay, okay,” Crowley said, and he put his hands on Warlock’s arms, squeezing just above his elbows. “You know, Warlock, I’ve only got a little human head—”

“Demon head.”

“Snake head, if we’re being pedantic about it, but the point is, I can’t remember all this stuff at once, so what we’re going to do is… is I’m gonna sit down and have a word with your parents—”

“Dad isn’t here. He’s in China or somewhere,” Warlock said.

“Then I’ll talk to your mum,” Crowley said. “I’m gonna sit down and talk to your mum, and we’re gonna see what’s what, and then we’ll talk about other stuff.”

“What if she doesn’t want to let you take me?” Warlock asked. “Will you kidnap me?”

“Not if I can help it,” Crowley muttered. “But— But if I _had_ to, I would. If I have to, I will.” He said it for himself as much as for the boy, but Warlock threw himself forward, his arms wrapping so tightly around Crowley’s neck that it almost hurt, but Crowley didn’t mind.

“What do I call you now?” Warlock asked, in a very quiet voice.

“Whatever you want,” Crowley murmured. “Nanny will do.”

“I love you, Nanny,” Warlock said, and Crowley squeezed him tightly.

“I love you too, dear.”

\--

“Nanny Ashtoreth!” cried Harriet when the imposing figure of the nanny appeared in the doorway, and she stood to her feet, dropping aside her magazine. She’d been awkwardly fiddling back and forth since they’d gotten back from Megiddo – Thaddeus was in Beijing, and she knew, she _knew_ , that he was in some hotel with a few girls, business be damned, and it was…

And Warlock was upset with her. He hadn’t liked his birthday all that much, and she knew she should be doing something with him, but she never knew what to do – he didn’t _like_ anything, except being horrid to her, and everything he wanted to do he wanted to do without her, and it—

And he didn’t like her, she didn’t think.

It was difficult, knowing that your son didn’t like you. It was more difficult, knowing that you didn’t exactly like him, and not being sure how to begin doing so, not being sure how you were _supposed_ to, when he was always comparing you to…

Nanny Ashtoreth was just as tall as Harriet remembered, and beautiful in her striking way, her red hair just so, her sunglasses neatly on her face, her shoulders squared. Looking at her, Harriet felt complete and astonishing terror, and wasn’t sure if that was what she was supposed to feel. This was her house, after all – she could tell the woman to get out, if she wanted to.

If she wanted to.

“Back to visit?” Harriet asked weakly.

“No,” Nanny Ashtoreth said. “May I sit down, Mrs Dowling?”

“Oh,” Harriet said, her voice quavering, and she took a step back, gesturing to the sofa. This was her own little living room, separate to the one downstairs, and she must have had a dozen magazine subscriptions, but she never really read any of them. She didn’t know what she did with her time, really, just paced from one thing to the next, tried not to stay still, tried to stay busy, but when it came to the end of the day, she so rarely could think of what she _had_ been doing.

She wasn’t meant to work.

That was the whole point of her being a mother, even now, she wasn’t meant to have a job, she was meant to be at home with Warlock, she was meant to build up the home, but what building up did it _need_? And Warlock didn’t want her here anyway, Warlock didn’t want her anyway, Warlock hated…

Did he hate her?

She was so certain he did, sometimes.

And it hurt. Oh, God, oh, Christ, did it hurt, because she looked at him, sometimes, and it _hurt_ , it ached in her chest to look at him because she cared so much, she loved him so much, wanted so desperately to make it all better, to give him what he wanted, but he never seemed to want anything she expected, anything she knew how to give, and everything she tried to do he didn’t like, everything was wrong, and she was meant to keep him safe, but how…?

Nanny Ashtoreth was sitting down, gracefully, her knees pressed together, parted to one side, her hands neatly folded in her lap.

Thaddeus had looked at her, sometimes. Harriet had always tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the sickly feeling that tugged at her belly when Thaddeus’ gaze lingered on the Nanny’s stockinged calves, or roved over her body when she leaned to get something from a tall shelf, or the way he said her name, the way he talked about her. It wasn’t that Harriet was stupid. Thaddeus liked women, had always liked women, and it wasn’t that Harriet was _alright_ with it, either, but what could she do?

She wondered if she’d made the wrong choice, sometimes. Thaddeus had seemed so good, in the beginning, they’d agreed on so much, and he’d been so romantic, he’d brought her flowers every Friday, and with those little romantic moments, other things, they faded into the background, but now the romantic moments were gone, and all she had were the other things, and Warlock.

She missed working.

It was wrong of her, Harriet supposed, to miss working.

She should have been satisfied with having a son, a beautiful, intelligent son (who cursed at her and told her that she was stupid and awful and useless, that she was a bad mother, and who was _right_ , and how did you argue with him, when he was right?), and a beautiful home, but it just…

“I wanted to talk about Warlock,” Nanny said.

“Oh,” Harriet said.

“Sit down,” Nanny said softly, and Harriet did. There was something comforting about Nanny. Some of the men in the household always talked about her as sexy, domineering and sexy, but Harriet had never felt that way, not really – Nanny always felt comforting, even now, even coming out of the blue after leaving those years ago, and Harriet wondered for one crazy, desperate moment if she was coming back. “This— This isn’t just about you,” Nanny said slowly, and she shifted her position. “It’s about me, too. And about Warlock.”

“Oh,” Harriet said.

“There isn’t an easy way for me to put this,” Nanny said softly, and Harriet stared as she gently drew the sunglasses away from her face, feeling herself gasp. She’d never seen Nanny’s eyes before, when she’d worked for them, not properly – she knew they’d been like snake eyes, but she hadn’t been prepared for the colour of them, the shape of the pupil. “But Warlock tells me that he’s been… struggling, here. He’s been writing me, you know, since I left.”

“Yeah,” Harriet said. “I know he wrote… letters. I didn’t realize you wrote back.”

“I didn’t,” Nanny said quietly. “I thought it would be easier for him, if I didn’t, but he kept writing. There were things at home that made it difficult for me to come back until now – safety things, you know. But he kept writing me, and I got all of his letters. He said he wanted to leave.”

Harriet stared at her own knees.

He’d mentioned it before, of course. Warlock had said once that he wanted to be emancipated so that he could live as far away from her as possible, and that had _cut_ , that had ached. He’d said he wanted to join the Scouts so that he could learn to camp and then he could run away, and he’d said that years ago, but she’d been so terrified that he _would_ , that he _could_ , she’d…

“I know it’s hard for you,” Nanny said softly, and her hand touched Harriet’s. It was colder than she expected, and Harriet heaved in a gasp. “I— Did you ever expect to have children?”

“No,” Harriet whispered. “I just… I never really thought about it, and then Thaddeus said, you know, that I wasn’t getting any younger, that we really ought— He wanted to have more, but the pregnancy, and then the breastfeeding, I couldn’t, Nanny, I couldn’t… But I never really thought I’d be a good mother, exactly, and I never wanted kids in the sense that I fantasied about having them, but it’s what’s done, you know?” The words were flowing out of her, let off like water from a tap, words that she’d only ever blurted out to her mother on the phone, five years ago, before she’d died, and her mother had said how horrible it was of her to say something like that, how awful. “And so we just had Warlock, but I was always so bad at it, with him, I never… Oh, God, why am I telling you this? I—”

“Shh, shh,” Nanny hushed her, squeezing her hand, and Harriet felt the hot sting of wet tears at her eyes. Christ Alive, what was wrong with her? “It’s not easy to be a mother.”

“I’m not one, not really,” Harriet said, not sure why she was saying it, why she was being so horribly honest, why the truth was slithering off her tongue like quicksilver. “Warlock says so.”

“He can be cruel,” Nanny murmured. “Children can. I wanted to— Look. Warlock said he wanted to come away, and I don’t want to… _take_ him from you. I’m not suggesting this to hurt you, or to take him away from you, to kidnap your son. But… But I live further south, I have a flat in London. He could live with me, and we could come back up here to visit, or you could come down to us.”

Harriet, eyes burning, cheeks beginning to get wet, stared at her. Her mind boggled. “Are you insane?”

“No,” Nanny said quietly. “But I see that you’re a tired, struggling woman, and that your husband won’t notice. I see that Warlock is… difficult. That you struggle with him.”

“How dare you?” Harriet demanded, and she was on her feet, shoving off Nanny’s hand. She was pacing, and she didn’t mean to, the rage burning in her chest and in the soles of her feet as she stalked back and forth. Nanny remained in her place, perfectly poised, the perfect woman. “How dare— You can’t _do_ this! Showing up to someone’s home with no warning, just the _help_ , you can’t—!”

“You don’t know how to be his mother,” Nanny said. “And it hurts you, but every moment you spend with him cuts away at you, makes you feel even less like your own person than you ever were, _if_ you ever were, just like time with your husband, but at least your husband is his own man. Warlock, he’s your son, he’s reliant on you, how fair is it on him, you think, that just having him there makes you feel like he’s leeching from something ineffable that you can’t explain?”

Harriet staggered back, her calves brushing the back of the coffee table, heaving in a gasp.

“Mrs Dowling,” Nanny said quietly, “I have watched mothers, struggling mothers like you, and known their innermost insecurities, their deepest fears, their most aching wants, the temptations that most spoke to them, for longer than you can imagine. I know _precisely_ how you feel.”

“He doesn’t cut at me,” Harriet said, voice thick with tears. “That’s such a horrible thing to say, that’s—”

“But it’s true,” Nanny said. “You look at your son and you feel yourself hating him, and you _hate_ yourself for it, but he represents everything you gave up—”

“Shut up!”

“— when you were never even sure you wanted him,” Nanny went on, voice steady, her snakeish gaze fixed on Harriet’s face. “Because your husband insisted it was what was to be done, I bet he never even told you he wanted you to be a housewife until after you’d been married, right? You thought you were going to be working for at least another five years, another ten, another fifteen, but then he started needling at you, talking about what was _proper_ , what was _expected_.”

Harriet felt sick, and she fell to sit down beside Nanny again. There was some weird force in the room – not pressing on her, not affecting her, just a vague awareness that something was slightly off, like this was a dream, like it was all a bit not real…

“If I take him,” Nanny went on, “he’ll live with me. I’ll do the hard stuff, and you can meet up with him, build up your relationship, no pressure.” Somewhere along the line, her Scottish brogue had faded. Her voice was a little deeper now, sounded more English. _Was_ this a dream? “You can go back to work, learn… Learn to be your own person again. See how _that_ woman interacts with her son.”

“But you can’t do that,” Harriet said, feeling dizzy, overwhelmed, her heart beating hard in her chest. “You can’t— What would people _say_?”

“They’d say,” Nanny said, her voice delicate, “that you wanted to return to work, but that you wanted to make sure Warlock was with someone you trusted to care for him, and closer to the city, where he could get a better education. You, a devoted and hardworking mother, put his wellbeing first, making sure he’s with someone who cares for him, a professional who looked after him in his childhood, so that you can have peace of mind.”

“Is this real?” Harriet asked softly. “It feels like a dream.”

“A nightmare?”

“Dream come true.”

For just a moment, Nanny’s fingers fisted in the edges of her own skirt, her knuckles whitening. Harriet felt a sudden punch of guilt, and she burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands, but to her surprise, she felt Nanny’s palm on her back, gently rubbing a circle there.

“It’s not your fault,” Nanny whispered. “You never asked for this. You didn’t… know what would happen. None of us know what will happen until it does.”

“Are you a real person?” Harriet asked.

“As of recently,” Nanny answered, but Harriet barely heard her: she felt an incredible, implacable sense of relief, and for some reason, it made her cry harder than ever.

\--

On the drive back to London, Crowley was back in his own clothes. He’d kept the long hair, letting it hang down around his shoulders, feeling its comforting weight and the occasional brush of the tips of it against his shoulders, and he wore simple clothes – a pair of black jeans, a white t-shirt, a jacket.

“Call Aziraphale,” he said, not bothering to flick on his indicator (Crowley knew what indicators were for, and had in fact invented them for the humorous element, but never used them himself) as he made a right turn.

The phone only rang twice before he heard the receiver in the shop being picked hurriedly up, heard Aziraphale’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line. He’d probably sprinted to get to the phone, and Crowley felt a little bit of guilt.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley inhaled at the sound of his voice, at the sound of Aziraphale on the other end of the line. “I’ve been sick with worry, I— I called you a few times, but you didn’t, ah, you didn’t pick up.”

“No,” Crowley said. “I was thinking about what you said.”

“About Warlock?”

“Mm.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley heard the little hitch in his breath as he did so. “I hope you don’t… You know, I love him so dearly, so much so it aches, and it hurt me too, to leave, I hope you understand that. But— You know, Crowley, we’ve meddled so much in the boy’s life, and it just seemed so unfair to, you know, to unroot him more than we already have. And I’m no paternal figure, and you, you’re better than I am, but… What with Hell and Heaven, and all that business, I just…”

Aziraphale exhaled. Crowley imagined him in his shop, leaning back against the desk, one hand cradling the side of the receiver, the other cupping its base, his eyes wide, carefully deliberating over every word he wanted to say.

Careful, uncertain Aziraphale, always needing to make sure what he was doing was the _right_ thing.

There was a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth, and he swallowed it.

“You know I care for him?” Aziraphale asked. “Warlock?”

“I know.”

“But not… I can’t put myself ahead of— I can’t be…” There was a long pause. Aziraphale said, “I told Adam that we’d be there to see him tomorrow. Just fish and chips, you know, nothing big. You don’t need to… You needn’t come if you really don’t want to, but I just thought—”

“I want to,” Crowley said. “We did agree to be godfathers, didn’t we? And he’s a good lad, and he needs someone to keep an eye on him. Some guidance.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you agree,” Aziraphale said, and his relief shone through the words. “I really did… You know, now that the Apocalypse is all through, that we’re, ahem, that we’re free agents, now that it’s… Not that we have our own side, per se, except that…” _Go on_ , Crowley thought, feeling dizzy at the idea, _say it. Say that we do, say that it’s you and me, say…_ “Except that a balance has to be maintained. Good and evil, you know.”

“Who’s who?” Crowley asked, and he heard Aziraphale laugh, genuinely, and then give way to that nervous titter that came out when he got anxious and too self-aware.

“Yes, well,” he said. Silence stretched across the phone line, and Crowley shifted lanes. “Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“I was so frightened you wouldn’t speak to me anymore,” Aziraphale whispered. “I really don’t think I could bear it, you know. Not talking to you. I don’t mean to say that we ought live in one another’s pockets, now that the end of the world is no longer looming, but, Crowley, I really…”

 _Say it_ , urged Crowley’s little voice, the one that was far too cowardly to play from his tongue instead, _say it. Please, angel, say that you want me, say that you want me like I want you, say…_

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley pressed his lips together. “I’ll, erm, I’ll meet you in Tadfield, shall I? I rather wanted to take the train, take some time for myself, but we can drive back together. Say, ten o’clock?”

“Ten o’clock,” Crowley repeated.

“Oh, I am sorry about Warlock,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “I wish we could go back properly, you know, I actually— No, no, I’ll tell you another time, but I… Do you ever find it difficult to be— Well, of course you do, you’re a demon, but sometimes I find it so terribly hard to be… I mean, of course we have free will, but we’re not humans, and there’s such a… But I…”

“Angel,” Crowley drawled, trying to ignore the hot and desperate feeling on his skin, the mix of shame and anticipation, that Aziraphale might be admitting to it, admitting to being on the same side, to not being _just_ an angel and a demon, admitting, admitting, “you’re not making any sense.”

“No,” Aziraphale mumbled. “No, I suppose not. We are friends, aren’t we, Crowley?”

“More than, I’d say,” Crowley said.

You couldn’t even have cut the tension with a knife, not unless it was a fictional knife capable of cutting little windows in the fabric of the universe. It was thick on the air, crackling like the ozone before a storm, and Crowley could hear Aziraphale holding his breath on the end of the line.

“Hereditary enemies, of course,” he said breathlessly. “I suppose.

“Not really what I meant,” Crowley said, though his tongue was moving slowly, and he barely suppressed a hiss. “Angel—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, ten sharp,” Aziraphale said. “Goodbye, dear.”

“G’night,” Crowley said, and listened to the click as the phone rang off. It was coming up to ten o’clock, and as he came closer to the city, it began to drizzle, the rain landing in thick, heavy drops on the windshield of the Bentley and refracting the orange glow of some of the street lamps, imparting on the whole car a sort of cozy, firelike haze.

He looked at the passenger seat.

Warlock was wrapped up in his duvet, one pillow shoved against the window of the car, the other awkwardly wrapped up in his arms, and he was fast asleep, his eyes closed, his jaw slack. He looked peaceful when he was sleeping. He looked happy, in a quiet, easy way.

It hadn’t been a temptation, exactly. He’d had to _convince_ her into it, had had to talk her through it, and it wasn’t actually a bad thing, it wasn’t just selfish, and it’d be good for her, for Mrs Dowling. Maybe, like this, she and Warlock would be able to connect better, with less pressure, more like… _people_. And Mr Dowling, Crowley didn’t think he’d even notice, really, and the security, he could deal with that himself…

“That’s all it is, then,” Crowley said, to no one in particular – no one that was bothering to listen, anyway. “I just… I just did that, and now he’s mine. That’s all it took, all it takes?”

The Bentley rumbled quietly as he drove on.

Between the purr of the engine and the regular, quiet rhythm of Warlock’s breathing, Crowley let his mind go pleasantly blank, and he felt himself, for the first time in weeks, in months, in _years_ , relax.


	4. Chapter 4

Warlock groaned, shifting to press his face more solidly against the man carrying him. He felt so _tired_ , sleep still settling over him in a thick haze, and this man wasn’t Mr Farraday, but one of the other guards, he thought, because he was slim and skinny.

“Mr Crowley, who’s this?” asked an old lady in the corridor, and Warlock opened his eyes blearily as “Mr Crowley” kept his gaze forward.

“This is Warlock, Mrs Weatherby,” he said.

“Oh. I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Good night, Mrs Weatherby,” said Mr Crowley, and Warlock felt himself smile slightly as a door opened without him even having to touch the door handle or anything, carrying him inside.

“’M awake,” Warlock said. “You didn’t have to _carry_ me, I’m not a _baby_.”

“Aren’t you? Could’ve fooled me,” Crowley replied, but he was smiling slightly, and he set Warlock upright on the floor, leaving Warlock stood in the wide, spacious area of his living room. It was very dark, with stone walls, but when Crowley flicked on the lights, which were in golden strips along the rooms edges, it took on a golden glow, comforting, like the whole place was lit by candles.

It was subtly modern, Warlock thought – there were busts and marble sculptures against many of the walls, plush red curtains, chaise longs, a lot of nods to the gothic, but sleek screens and metallic furniture were dotted in amongst it, creating a kind of artful fusion of the two styles. Warlock really liked it, and said so.

“Oh,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows in surprise, and as he did he pushed his sunglasses up to settle on top of his head, smiling. “Thanks.” It was weird, looking at his face – Warlock could see Nanny’s features in it, but Crowley’s face was softer than hers was, less stern, and what’s more, the way that he held himself was completely different – he was lax and loose and easy in a way that Nanny never had been, Nanny was always… _square_.

It felt very strange, but to Warlock’s surprise, it wasn’t actually horrible, or upsetting. Somehow the comfort of Nanny was there, even if it wasn’t Nanny.

“It is dark, though,” Warlock said. “This high up, you could do a lot more with natural light – all this is kind of a waste. Why don’t you have wider windows?”

“Well,” Crowley said, looking slightly put upon. “I like it dark.”

“But you could make use of natural light in the day and still have curtains when you want it dark. I bet it’s horribly dim even when the sun is shining really bright.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it. His face moved a lot more than Nanny’s did – he had a lot more expressions, and the expressions that he had seemed to have a lot more variations, his face way more flexible about the way it put them on. He looked as though he were trying to think of the right thing to say, which he kept stopping to do, with Warlock, and had in the car.

“Well,” he said, finally. “We can change it, if we stay here.”

“If?” Warlock asked, stroking the back of a plush red armchair.

“Might want to live somewhere else,” Crowley said. “Don’t know if you want to go to school in London.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, shrugging his shoulders. He wasn’t looking at Warlock, but out of one of the too-narrow windows, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips pressed together. He’d managed to get his fingers into his pockets (although how he’d done that, Warlock didn’t know, because they looked like the sort of jeans that had to be surgically put onto your legs, they were so tight), and had flattened his arms in close to his body, so that he looked like one skinny column of black. “Might want to go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Crowley repeated, with more emphasis, now. “Look, uh, tomorrow, we’re going to go on a little, um, a little trip, right? We’re gonna drive out to Tadfield.”

“That’s where I was born,” Warlock said slowly, his fingers playing awkwardly with the back of the chair, and Crowley nodded his head. “Why?”

“Well,” Crowley said, tilting his head. “Aziraphale will be there – Brother Francis.”

“That’s not a why,” Warlock said.

“It’s a big why for me,” Crowley said softly, with a weird tone to it, but before Warlock could ask what that meant, his brow furrowed, Crowley looked back to meet his gaze. “Adam invited us out.”

“Adam,” Warlock repeated.

“Adam,” Crowley said. “You two are the same age. Thought you might like to meet him.”

“Well, I don’t,” Warlock said.

“Oh.”

“Why would I want to meet someone just because he’s the same age as me? Plenty of people are the same age as me, I don’t want to meet them – do you want to meet people who are the same age as _you_ just because of that?”

“Well, all the people who are the same age as me are—”

“What, just because he’s the _real_ Antichrist? And he lives with _my_ real parents? He gets everything while I got what _I_ got?”

Crowley stared at him, his yellow eyes wide, his mouth agape, and then he said, taking his hands out of his pockets, “Well, Warlock, it’s really not—”

“I’d like to go to my room,” Warlock said loudly.

Crowley’s lips downturned at their edges. “Please,” he said, in a tone of reminder – it sounded powerless in a way that Nanny never had, and the thought made Warlock irrationally angry, his hands clenching into tight fists.

“ _Please_ ,” he said, with all the mocking ire he could force into the word, and he didn’t get a look at Crowley’s face as he turned around, leading the way down the corridor.

He pushed open a door, and Warlock stopped at the threshold, staring at it. It had very wide windows, all making up one wall that would let in the sun as it rose, and with all the plain glass there was a great view of London underneath; the other three walls were appointed in a tastefully light blue, which complemented the light wood of the cabin bed and the desk underneath it, the dresser, the wardrobe. On one wall was a painting – it was a modern thing, abstract, all criss-crossing lines, and Warlock really liked it.

He liked the whole room, actually. It felt very grown up, but not in the way that a guest bedroom did, and he opened his mouth, closed it, looked back at Crowley. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression serious.

“It’s just fish and chips,” he said quietly.

“I hate fish,” Warlock said, and slammed the door in his face.

He expected Crowley to immediately push the door open again, or to knock on it, or to shout at him, but none of it came: the door remained closed, and when Warlock listened at the door, he heard Crowley sigh, and retreat back down the corridor. Nanny wouldn’t have done that. Nanny would have waited outside the door until Warlock opened it to check if she’d gone, and then she would have asked what he was playing at, slamming a door at her.

He’d never have slammed a door at Nanny. Not ever.

It was just so… _unfair._

It was one thing, for some other boy to have had the life he was meant to have – to have proper parents or whatever, even if that meant not having Nanny, but for him to _also_ actually be the Antichrist, to be everything that Nanny had wanted from him in the first place, it wasn’t…

Warlock’s cheeks felt very hot, his eyes burning, and he kicked off his shoes, shoving them aside. He wasn’t tired, not at all, but he went to the bed anyway, pulling back the duvet, which had a wine red colour on it, and looked very nice, soft—

The inside of it was patterned all over with little green dinosaurs, and Warlock felt hot tears run down his cheeks as he grit his teeth, then went to the door, pulling it open.

“Crowley!” he called, coming back down the corrido into the big living room, but he couldn’t see him anywhere, and he ducked his head into the modern, chrome-filled kitchen, then into a big, cavernous room with a desk in the middle of it. This room had very wide windows, and he pulled open the curtains, staring out over the view.

Had he gone?

Was he already sick of Warlock for losing his temper and being awful, had he just walked straight out?

“Nanny?” Warlock called out as he came back into the living room. He could feel the panic rising in him, could feel a sort of dreadful tightness in his chest, could feel the heat in his cheeks, how loud his voice was. “Nanny! Nanny, nanny, _come back!”_

The door opened, and Warlock threw himself at Crowley, making him drop the duvet and pillows balanced in one arm, and Crowley’s hand went to the top of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Warlock wailed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t leave again, don’t—”

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t,” Crowley said, squeezing him tightly. “Sorry, I was getting your case from the car, sweetheart, I wasn’t leaving, I wouldn’t do that.”

He kicked the door shut behind them, and Warlock felt the ache in his throat as he sobbed himself ragged, grabbing hold of Crowley and not letting go. Crowley was talking, Warlock was distantly aware, was saying some sort of nonsense, but Warlock didn’t really take any of it in, just holding on as tightly as he dared, not letting him go.

“I won’t leave you,” he managed to make out, eventually. “Not ever again, Warlock, not ever.”

Warlock held him so tightly his fingers ached.

\--

“I’m not going,” Warlock said over breakfast that morning, which happened to be a spread of grilled fish, natto, and salad, because Crowley had said Warlock could choose whatever restaurant he wanted, and Warlock had chosen a Japanese place around the corner from Crowley’s flat.

“Want to bet on that?” Crowley asked, eating another slice of salmon. “I’ve already said I’ll go, which means you’ve got to come as well.”

“You could just leave me here,” Warlock said.

“Yes, I could, why didn’t I think of that?” Crowley asked. “An eleven-year-old alone in London. There’s no issue with that.”

“Haven’t you read Harry Potter?”

“I’m less inclined to base my parenting decisions on children’s fantasy fiction than you might hope.”

Last night had been… difficult. It had hurt more than he could have really anticipated, having Warlock shut the door in his face like that, and the ensuing meltdown had been awful. Crowley’s chest still ached, thinking of how tightly Warlock had clung onto him, so frightened Crowley would leave him again, so damned _upset_ , and why shouldn’t he be? Why shouldn’t he be frightened, when Crowley _had_ abandoned him?

He’d spent the night in Warlock’s bedroom, curled up in the armchair until Warlock had finally drifted fitfully off, and although Warlock seemed alright now, well-rested enough, the guilt had kept Crowley awake the night through.

Warlock was currently shooting him a scornful look as he ate his natto and rice, and Crowley picked up a piece of grilled mackerel, chewing it thoughtfully.

“Thought you didn’t like fish,” he said as he watched Warlock pick up another piece of salmon.

Warlock scowled, and looked at his bowl instead of Crowley.

“Look, we don’t have to stay for very long,” Crowley said. “We’ll go into Tadfield, meet Adam and Aziraphale, eat, and go. We can go to the cinema, if you like.”

“There’s nothing good out,” Warlock said.

“A musical?”

“Musicals are stupid.”

“A play?”

“What, is it still 1635?”

“The circus?”

“I’m not a toddler.”

“A zoo?”

“Zoos are bullshit.”

“Museum?”

“ _No_.”

“The launch of the new Impressionists’ exhibition at the Tate Modern?”

Warlock looked up from his food and his eyes immediately flitted to the twin tickets Crowley was already holding in his hand, one eyebrow raised. He’d not managed to get as much detail out of Warlock as he’d hoped to, in the car ride down to the city, but he had managed to work out that Warlock genuinely did have a lot of appreciation for art and architecture – and that was before he’d hopped neatly between complimenting Crowley’s sense of décor and shredding it to ribbons.

“You know,” Warlock said, apparently trying to look superior, “bribery is a very cheap parenting tactic.”

“Effective, though,” Crowley said.

Warlock’s expression made Crowley’s heart pang: he could see the worry on the boy’s face, the downturn of his lips, and inwardly, he felt his own worry – worry about how Adam and the Them would respond to him, worry about how Aziraphale would…

“Once we get there,” Crowley said, “if you’re uncomfortable – if you’re ever uncomfortable with anywhere we go – you can tell me. Alright? I’m sorry I agreed without asking you first – I won’t do that again. But… will you just give it a try? See what Adam and his friends are like?”

“Okay,” Warlock said. “But I still want to go to the exhibition.”

“Deal,” Crowley said, and put his hand out to shake.

“Shouldn’t you be teaching me not to make deals with the devil?”

“Not when it’s me,” Crowley said, and felt himself relax when Warlock gave the tiniest of smiles.

\--

It was a bright and sunny summer’s day in Tadfield.

Aziraphale set with his hands neatly folded in his lap, on the top of Piggy’s Hill, ostensibly the best place for miles about for sledding, when came the snow in winter and one wished to pack oneself onto a breakfast tray and slide down its side. The idea, to Aziraphale, was a somewhat thrilling one – there was an illicitness, a silliness in it, and he fancied that if he and Crowley were to come to Tadfield in winter, Crowley might tempt him into it, and what fun that might be.

Seated on the bench, he could see the Them playing a complicated game that he had struggled to follow, despite Adam explaining its rules thrice over – by all accounts, young Wensleydale was the dangerous emperor of some sort of empire, and the other three were tasked with engineering his downfall.

It looked rather like a game of standing about and talking, with a bit of mild choreography now and then, but having never been a child, Aziraphale didn’t suppose he was qualified to criticize their methodology in playing pretend.

The warmth of the day settled pleasantly on his shoulders, kissed the top of his hair, his face, and yet there was a strange chill in him. He kept thinking about Crowley on the phone with him last night, kept thinking of how often his own tongue had rather ceased to cooperate, his mouth going quiet.

He knew that he was right.

It was funny – Aziraphale often liked to be right, but on the most important things, being right never felt any better. It just made the ache in his chest all the heavier, and the difficulty in speaking with Crowley all the harder to bear.

Of course they couldn’t risk Warlock any more than they already had, and of course it would be cruel to go back to him, to uproot his life, to be so selfish as to lumber in and pick him up – he was a little boy, a human being with his own life, with parents, he wasn’t their _toy_ , wasn’t their _plaything_ , just as he hadn’t been an instrument of the apocalypse.

It would be wrong of him, to stride up to the Tadfield household and attempt to pluck him back – it would be cruel to him.

Aziraphale rather wanted to, anyway.

He was often cruel, after all. Not just on Crowley’s dime, either – often, he could be a bit cruel in the most virtuous of ways, indulging in a little heavenly payback against the more irritating members of London’s populace. He was often selfish – Aziraphale was selfish, and hedonistic, and he _indulged_.

This was somewhat different to that, he supposed.

Indulging in another piece of cake or another night at the opera didn’t really harm anybody – and hadn’t they done enough harm to poor young Warlock already?

The rumble of the Bentley sounded in the distance, and Aziraphale drew out his pocket watch, allowing himself the smallest, fondest smile as he watched the seconds tick by, synchronised with the sound of the car coming to a stop, the car door opening.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley said, and as it always did at the sight of him after a little while apart, Aziraphale’s heart gave a little jump in his chest, as though it were a bird in a cage.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, unable to stop the smile that pulled at his lips as he got to his feet, and when Crowley stopped a little ways ahead of him, he felt himself missing – as he often did on occasions like these – the days where they’d greet one another with kisses on each cheek, where to do otherwise would be an insult, no matter their apparently different sides.

One didn’t do that sort of thing anymore, not in England, at least. Aziraphale rather wished it would come back into fashion.

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head. “You’ve grown out your hair again. It’s lovely.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale let his lips part, taking a step forward, but then his gaze flitted past Crowley, to the figure stepping up behind him. He, too, had his hands in his pockets, although he walked far more naturally than Crowley ever had.

Aziraphale’s lips felt frozen on his face as Crowley leaned back, sliding a hand against Warlock’s lower back.

“Warlock,” Crowley said, “this is… _not_ Brother Francis. This is Aziraphale.”

“You look _much_ better like this,” Warlock said. “And without that horrible moustache, either.”

“What ever was wrong with my moustache?”

“You’d painted it on lopsided,” Warlock said, and Aziraphale felt his hand go to his mouth, his eyes wide, but Warlock was beaming. Oh, he did look… He looked ever so happy. When had Aziraphale last seen the boy so _happy_ , with such _joy_ on his face, oh—

Aziraphale jolted when Warlock’s arms enfolded him, and he leaned awkwardly to hug the boy, his lips brushing the top of the young man’s hair before he knew what he was doing, his heart aflame. There was a sort of prickling terror running down his spine, but it grappled with the _relief_ , the wonder, at seeing Warlock with such a smile on his features, at feeling the boy hug him again.

“It’s good to see you again,” Aziraphale said, even though just saying the words felt as though he were ripping himself to pieces, and he wanted to object, to complain, but how could he, with Warlock right before him?

How could Crowley have…?

Warlock pulled away, and Aziraphale watched his face as he looked down over the hill. He could see the hesitation on his face, the way he glanced at Crowley, but Adam had already spotted him, and was rushing up the hill with the other children in tow.

\--

Warlock actually stepped back against Crowley, feeling Crowley’s hand settle at the scruff of his neck again. Nanny had used to do that, sometimes – it actually made him think of the way mother cats would catch their kittens by the backs of their necks, and it was comforting, in its way, without making him feel like he looked really babyish, leaning right into him or something.

“He’s not going to eat you, Warlock,” Crowley said in an undertone.

“Oh, yeah, Warlock, why are you frightened of the _Antichrist_?”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, and Warlock sniggered, snorting on the laugh when he heard Crowley laugh himself. Aziraphale – Warlock was certain he could not pronounce that, and was going to avoid trying until he absolutely had to – was watching them with an expression Warlock didn’t know how to address, what to think of it.

“Hello! Who are you?” asked the leader of the group as he came up the top of the hill – he had messy hair and very intent eyes, and Warlock forced himself to step forward, putting forward his hand to shake.

“I’m Warlock,” he said.

“That’s a ridiculous name!”

“Well, what’s _your_ name?”

“Adam.”

“Bit derivative, isn’t it?”

“How is it?”

“Well, you copied your name out of the bible. Mine’s a bit more original.”

“Nicely riposted,” Crowley said approvingly from behind him, and Warlock felt himself smile.

Adam was looking at him very seriously, his brow furrowed, but then his lips shifted into an ever so slight smile, and he gave a slow nod of approval. It felt good, getting Adam’s approval – Warlock didn’t know if there was something supernatural in it, because it did feel a bit more _important_ than normal, but how did you judge things like this, anyway?

“Well,” Adam said, “this is the Them. This is Pepper, and Wensleydale, and Brian.”

Pepper and Brian did not step forward, but Wensleydale stepped forward and offered his hand, and Warlock shook it, looking between the four other children without letting himself say anything right away.

“We’re playing Topple The Regime,” Adam said.

Warlock’s instinct was to demand if they were really playing pretend, like babies, but he bit it back. He had his phone on him, if he got bored, and “Topple The Regime” did sound a little bit beyond “Mummies and Daddies” or acting out what had been on Coronation Street last night. 

“Oh,” Warlock said. “Are you going to guillotine someone?”

“What’s that?” Adam said.

“Well, it was a French execution device,” Warlock said. “It’s made of a wooden frame with a blade that drops down onto the neck of the kneeling victim, slicing through flesh, nerve, and spinal cord in order to decapitate them. Sometimes, victims would keep on talking and their faces would keep twitching for time afterward.”

“ _Wicked_ ,” Adam said, looking to the Them with a grin on his face: each of them looked very approving at the idea, and Warlock felt himself smile. “Come on, let’s go build one.”

“Foam blades only,” Aziraphale called after them as Adam grabbed Warlock by the wrist and started pulling him down the hill, and Warlock… Warlock, to his surprise, felt himself laugh.

\--

“You kidnapped him, then,” Aziraphale said. His voice was quite cutting, but it shook as he spoke.

“Talked to his mother,” Crowley replied, meeting the angel’s gaze. “Suggested that she go back to work – she’s been desperate to for years, you know, to go back to the workforce. Said she’d actually look like a great mother, letting Warlock stay with a trusted friend so he could go to a good school, and that she might be a bit better at it, if she didn’t resent him.”

“She never resented him,” Aziraphale said, despite obviously knowing the opposite to be true, and Crowley shrugged his shoulders. He slid his hands into his pockets, looking down over the hill as the kids crowded around Wensleydale’s notebook, examining a sketch together.

“Didn’t she?”

“What, then, you’re just going to— to set him up with you in London? You don’t know anything about being a _father_ , Crowley.”

“It’s not as if he has much of an idea of what it’s like to be parented,” Crowley retorted, and Aziraphale’s expression was one of consternation. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“We?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Crowley said, unable to keep the venom out of his voice. “You’re not interested in him anymore, are you?”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Aziraphale hissed, coming right up to him, so close their noses nearly brushed, and Crowley shivered at the wave of angelic _rage_ that radiated from Aziraphale, coming off him like heat. “Don’t you _dare_ , you despicable beast. I _do_ care about him, don’t you ever imply to me again that I don’t. But what I _didn’t_ see fit to do, Crowley, was put the mark of Heaven and Hell on his back as a target, that any one of our side might see fit to harm him – or even _kill_ him.”

Crowley didn’t let his expression change, and Aziraphale turned away from him, inhaling, exhaling.

“But you’ve done it now, haven’t you?” Aziraphale demanded. “Uprooted him.”

“He wanted me to.”

“What we want isn’t always best for us, Crowley.”

“You would say that.”

“What _ever_ is that supposed to mean?”

“As if you don’t know.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be like this,” Aziraphale said.

“How do you want me to be, angel? I’ve tried every way I can think of, but it never seems to be enough for you.”

There was hurt on Aziraphale’s face as he turned to look at Crowley, hurt that actually took him by surprise, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything about it, didn’t voice whatever it was that had cut him so close to the quick. Holding his hands primly in front of his belly, he pressed his lips tightly together, pursing them.

“I have _never_ ,” Aziraphale said damningly, “wanted you as anything other than what you are.”

Crowley took this in, unable to make sense of the tangled shift of emotion in his belly, and he swallowed.

“Come,” Aziraphale said. “I said to the Youngs we’d go along to meet them once you arrived.”

“I’ve only ever wanted you as is, too, angel,” Crowley said, too late.

Aziraphale ignored him, and Crowley sighed before he moved to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I'm not able to answer all my comments! I work full time and there's a lot on this series, but feel free to message or @ me on Tumblr @[patricianandclerk](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com)! I'm also on Twitter [@DictionaryWrite](https://twitter.com/dictionarywrite).
> 
> Thank you so so much for all your lovely comments and notes about the series. 💕 It's such a pleasure to write these series, and the response is overwhelming, I'm so so glad people are engaging with it!


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